Darkfall
by shirozora
Summary: He does wonder how the angel seems completely unfazed by what he just wrung out with his hand and his touches and his wonderful mouth.


**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**Darkfall**

The shot of amber whiskey sits half empty on the sticky counter while Dean pushes his way through the evening crowd and thick smoky atmosphere, following the beige trench coat to the door. He still feels fingers wrapped around his wrist like a hot brand, keeps expecting to see shiny red burns above his bracelet every time he pulls up his sleeve; the hum, the itch of_ something_ under his skin is getting worse with each step and he fights not to reach out, spin the angel around, and shove him into the wall.

Castiel pushes the door open and his hand slides across the varnished wood; Dean stares at the slender fingers as they curve around the edge of the door and then his shoulder slams into it as it swings back. He chokes on Scotch-laced spit, earning the bouncer's attention; Dean flashes him a quick smile and steps outside.

Frigid bluish air hits him like a punch in the face and his too-hot skin prickles and stings. Everything sharpens into focus, like the faded white stripes on the street and the rows of streetlamps and the angel waiting just outside the bar, the city lights an afterglow wrapped around him. He seems eerie and intangible; Dean wants to reach out and bury his fingers in the unruly dark hair, but Castiel doesn't give him the chance, wraps an insistent hand around his elbow and pulls him into the alley.

Dean follows without question, lets Castiel back him up into the wall and pin him there with a hand on his shoulder. The hum becomes a buzz in his ear; his body feels too constricted, too small. Castiel's a wall of intense heat and focus, eyes wide but sharp and full of intent. He moves a half-step closer and tilts his head up but doesn't make another move. He's waiting.

Castiel holds himself incredibly still while Dean slowly raises his hands and slides them through his hair. It's longer than he remembers and so soft, so unruly, smooth locks slipping between his fingers as he strokes the back of Castiel's head. The angel shudders and closes his eyes, leans closer into Dean's space until their noses brush and their mouths are just centimeters apart; it takes Dean curling his fingers and lightly dragging fingernails along the curve of his skull for Castiel to close the distance, a strangled moan vibrating from his throat into Dean as the angel pushes him hard against the wall.

Castiel's lips are warm and slightly fuzzy as they slide over Dean's damp mouth. Dean tugs him closer, angling his head as he coaxes the angel's lips open; Castiel only gives way when Dean presses in with his tongue, teases by sliding the tip along the slick inside of his upper lip. The angel shudders and moans again, hands sliding over Dean's chest and gripping his shirt tightly. Dean grins and slowly widens his stance, lets Castiel crowd him in while he continues exploring the bittersweet recesses of the angel's mouth.

He feels Castiel's hands let go of his shirt and slide down to settle on his hips, holding him in place; heat seeps in through his jeans and Dean pulls the angel even closer, tries to eliminate the space between them. The hot press from chest to groin is electrifying, but not like the sudden snap when one of Castiel's hands slips under his shirt and wrap around his ribcage; something bright sears through him and Dean pulls back, stares down at Castiel with wide eyes.

"What was that?"

"The sigil on your bones," Castiel says, looking a lot less surprised as he presses a lingering openmouthed kiss.

"Is it...is it supposed to do that?"

Castiel doesn't say but when he slides his hand up and plants it on the sternum Dean feels the symbols heat up, feels lightning race under his skin and setting his nerves on fire. He gasps and buries his face in Castiel's neck, shuddering and overwhelmed, slow arousal abruptly becoming incessant pressure in his jeans.

"Fuck," he whispers hotly and Castiel hums in reply.

Dean presses his mouth to the angel's neck and slides his tongue along the suddenly taut tendons. His hand curls in Castiel's hair, tugging at silken bunches, and he scrapes his teeth on coarse skin, bites hard enough to bruise.

Castiel flinches and then growls, shoves him back against the wall. Dean pushes back reflexively, hips grinding against the angel's, knees shaking from friction-induced pleasure. It settles into a thrum and a throb, coiling low as Dean finds his way back to Castiel's swollen lips and attacks them, nipping and sucking hard, pushing his tongue inside and curling it around the angel's; Castiel slams his hand into the wall next to Dean's head and the bricks crack, bits and pieces tumbling down to the ground.

Dean hisses when the other hand slides across his chest to his side, thumb brushing over his hard nipple while his ribcage heats up again, and it all goes straight to his dick like it couldn't get any harder. He tries to work his hand down to his belt to relieve the pressure but Castiel's arm is in the way; the angel wastes no time extracting his hand from under Dean's shirt to grab his wrist and shoves it against the wall. As he eases his grip he pulls back and looks Dean in the eye.

"No."

Nimble fingers work at his belt, undoing the buckle while Castiel mouths along Dean's jaw, tongue sliding against the beginnings of stubble. Dean shivers, doesn't know whether to focus more on the mouth or the hand; he ends up pulling Castiel's head back up so he can lick the salt and bar smoke and gun oil out of his mouth.

Then Castiel pops the button on his jeans and tugs at the zipper, and Dean hisses as the pressure suddenly lets up. The hiss becomes a groan when a hot hand cups and kneads him through his briefs; Dean rocks his hips forward, looking for more, unable to hold back the pathetically needy sounds when he can't find it.

He feels the angel's hum rumbling through his chest as he teases with his fingertips, thumb pressing a second too long on the damp head before curving his hand around him. Dean thrusts forward once, twice, feeling himself fray around the edges while his open mouth brushes against Castiel's; the angel never seems to _need_ to breathe but he's dragging air into his lungs like he needs it, breathes ozone-tinged air into Dean's mouth and down his lungs.

He tries to work his hand between them but Castiel pushes it away again. His eyes gleam in the orange streetlight, the sharp edge between color and shadow cutting across and masking his face, illuminating inky pupils and colorless iris rings. Full lips shine with spit and Dean crushes his mouth to it, slicking them even more with his tongue while he rocks his hips against the cupped hand, ignoring how the wet fabric chafes with each thrust.

Castiel suddenly pulls his hand back and Dean has maybe half a second to notice before fingers slip under the elastic band of his briefs and a smooth hand wraps around his cock, pulls it out into the cold air. His breath hitches sharply, cutting off a groan; his hands twitch where they are, fingertips digging into the grooves between bricks while his other hand yanks at the angel's hair; Castiel hisses and strokes him hard.

"Fuck!" Dean presses his head back against the wall, unseeing eyes staring up at the dark sky as he utterly fails to catch his breath and his hips roll and thrust of their own accord. "Jesus, Cas…."

Castiel latches onto his exposed throat and sucks out bruises while he presses the pad of his thumb to the head and smears precome around it, uses it to lubricate every stroke and slide. Dean thinks he could die; his skin feels too small and the throbbing heat low in his stomach uncoils too fast. The mouth on his neck and the hand on his dick are relentless, and it's too much; when Castiel slides his other hand down the wall and wraps it over the faded hand print on Dean's shoulder his whole body electrifies and shoves him over the edge.

Castiel swallows his hoarse cry, snatching it out of the night air and bringing it back down to _them_. He holds Dean up while he rides it out, waits until he's only thrusting weakly and about to collapse before extracting his come-slick hand. Dean tips forward, pressing his forehead against the angel's shoulder as he catches his breath. He curls and uncurls his fingers around the back of Castiel's head while the other grips tightly at the trench coat, hoping it doesn't tear under his weight. Dean doesn't think he can move again.

"...shit," he whispers, his voice so gone he can't hear himself.

He flinches, stomach muscles clenching tightly, as Castiel carefully tucks him back in, his light touches too painful; Dean feels sticky and gross but too blissed and uncoordinated to care. He does wonder how the angel seems completely unfazed by what he just wrung out with his hand and his touches and his wonderful mouth.

Dean presses his nose to the side of Castiel's neck, trails his kisses up the too-hot skin and along the blunt jaw; he curls his tongue along the bone, earns something between a moan and a purr as Castiel tilts his head up, exposing his neck. The angel trembles, both hands now clutching his hips and fingers hooking around belt loops, as Dean licks and sucks the salt off of his skin, presses his tongue along the sensitive spot between jaw and neck. He smells so human, sweat and earthy musk swirling with brisk night air, sickly sweet city refuse, and traces of the smoky bar.

Wherever Dean kisses, wherever he licks and sucks and mouths and bites he feels a tremor of restraint, feels bruises forming where Castiel grips him tight, swears when he presses his thumbs into the hip joints. It all goes back to his still-sensitive cock and Dean's not sure if he can handle it.

"What about you?" He traces his question along the shell of Castiel's ear with the tip of his tongue, smiles when the angel squirms against him. "Tell me what you want. What you need."

Castiel nuzzles into his neck, leaving stubble burn on top of the hickeys. His hands slide up and under Dean's shirt, smooth hot palms pressing against his side; this time the sigils burn pleasantly, like bourbon down his throat.

"I have what I need," Castiel says quietly and lifts his head to lean forward and kiss him.

Dean doesn't quite buy it but the angel seems incredibly pleased with himself, if the slow languorous slide of tongue along his bottom lip and inside his mouth is anything to go by. He doesn't complain, presses his hand to the small of Castiel's back to pull him close as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss; Dean feels fuzzy and loose and content, like he'd had one shot too many while in good company, like he just had incredible mind-blowing sex.

Maybe he can talk the angel into coming back to the motel with him, kick Sam out into the parking lot, pull the layers off Castiel and touch-

A sharp teasing whistle shatters the bubble around them and Castiel pulls back. Annoyed, Dean looks for the source and sees three women giggling amongst themselves as they walk down the sidewalk away from the bar.

Castiel steps back, sliding away from his arms, and Dean lets them drop to his side. He shoves tingling hands into the pockets of his jeans as he looks at the angel; his eyes and lips shine, hair tugged and pulled in every direction, and if there's better light Dean can probably find the bite marks on his neck. Otherwise he looks pristine, sharp even, like he didn't have his hand down Dean's pants just a few minutes ago. Dean glances down at himself, at the stretch marks all over his wrinkled shirt, and tries to smooth them out. He straightens his jacket and looks up, raises an eyebrow at the sly smile on Castiel's face.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean pushes himself off the wall to make a grab for the tie but Castiel is already walking away, trench coat swaying around his deceptively slender frame as he steps back onto the sidewalk and the larger world. He looks like someone right out of a film noir, a silhouette except where the streetlight crowns his head and shoulders in an orange glow, giving him the illusion of a halo and wings. Castiel tilts his head towards the sky and then looks over his shoulder at Dean. He then turns smartly on the heels of his wingtips and walks down the street; Dean watches him until the building next to the bar blocks the view.

A second later Dean steps back into the city and looks around. Castiel is gone.


End file.
